Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.
– Mervyn Peake
What is Time... that you speak of it so subserviently? Are we to be the slaves of the sun, that second-hand, overrated knob of gilt, or of his sister, that fatuous circle of silver paper? A curse upon their ridiculous dictatorship!